


Gods Among Men

by Brenda



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-17 01:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1368502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/pseuds/Brenda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>One day, the world will tremble and kneel before us.  One day, you won't need to hide who you truly are.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gods Among Men

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Penknife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penknife/gifts).



> Originally written in December of 2011. Thanks to Jo for the beta.

 

Erik's always been a light sleeper. Even as a boy, the slightest noise would wake him – and, in the fifteen years since Auschwitz, he's honed that vigilance into an art form. Attacks always come when one is least prepared, so it's only natural to always _be_ prepared, even in slumber. And Erik is nothing if not meticulous when it comes to preparation.

The dull thunking noise coming from somewhere outside Erik's open bedroom window is slight enough that it wouldn't disturb anyone else. At 3 a.m., precious little would rouse a house full of exhausted teenagers, but Erik jerks awake the moment the sound registers in his subconscious. He takes a few breaths to reorient himself and remember where he is – second level of the Xavier mansion in upstate New York, in the spacious, luxurious bedroom Charles had given him, door six meters to his right, window two meters to his left – and to adjust his vision to the darkness. Then he gets out of bed and steps to the window for a look outside. Nothing seems out of the ordinary – the sky is clear and the grass is untouched – but when he hears the noise again, it sounds as if it's coming from somewhere past the back lawn. It could be nothing, but it's worth investigating. He silently slips on his shoes, not bothering with a flashlight to guide his way, and treads down the stairs, then outside onto the grounds.

There's a well-manicured hill that leads from the back of the house towards the gardens, and Erik follows the graveled path up the slope, shoes crunching slightly with each step. It's a clear night – cool, but mild enough that he doesn't need a jacket over his cotton pajama pants and t-shirt. Tall, imposing lines of trees stand guard on either side of the grounds, giving the manor almost a fairytale-like quality, like the house and lands are enchanted, shielded from the outside world. Safe from prying eyes. It's a lovely illusion, but Erik knows better than to believe it. There is no such thing as a safe haven, not for anyone. But this place will do for now.

The stars twinkle brilliantly overhead, and Erik names them as he walks. One of the old men at Auschwitz had taken Erik under his wing – sharing his meager meals and thin blanket – and had also taught Erik about the constellations and the Greek Gods that had inspired them. The colorful stories of the brave and reckless gods and mortals and demi-gods had been the lone bright spot in the endless days of tests and experiments, of being an unwilling guinea pig in Shaw's sadistic games.

The noise has continued – a rhythmic, but infrequent, thudding – and Erik's having a devil of a time trying to discern what it could be, until he crests the summit and has a clear view of the grounds below. He sees Charles, dressed in silk pajamas – a jewel blue shade that Erik knows matches his eyes, holding a short bow in steady hands, methodically unleashing arrow after arrow at a bull's-eye target set up about forty yards away. Each movement is economical and graceful, and Erik stops in his tracks, mesmerized.

In the full light of the moon, Charles looks like one of the famed Greek archers from the stories of his youth – Orion, maybe, or Philoctetes, or his father, Poeas. Lithe and beautiful and deadly, glowing with some otherworldly fire. Erik is struck once again by the dichotomy that is Charles Xavier, this brilliant professor and hopeless idealist with the patience of a saint and the arrogance of an emperor. For all that they've spent every waking moment together the last few months, there's still so much about Charles that Erik doesn't know. So much of who Charles is remains a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, hidden by a deceptively open face.

He has no idea how long he stands rooted to the spot, watching as Charles lets each arrow fly, but the spell is broken when Charles glances his way and sees him.

"Oh, hullo." Charles' voice, cultured and rounded and friendly, carries clearly in the slight breeze. "I didn't see you."

Erik finishes making his way down the slope and stops when he gets to Charles' side. Charles' messy mop of hair is ruffled, and beads of sweat line his forehead. His eyes seem preternaturally bright.

Erik gestures at the bow. "I thought you were a pacifist." It isn't at all what he'd meant to say, but somehow, he's not surprised that the words had come out of him, unbidden, unchecked.

Charles chuckles – the sound more intimate than a touch – and blazing a path along Erik's tightly-strung nerves like a wildfire out of control. "Even the most peaceful of men – Gandhi, for instance, or the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr. – have known that violence is sometimes a necessary part of peace," Charles says. "It never hurts to be prepared."

"And all of your grandiose talk of being better men?" Charles wouldn't be the first to say one thing and mean another, but Erik can't help the disappointment that races through him. A mutant who can see into the very hearts of men should have no use for prevarication or lies. He should be better.

"Violence isn't the _only_ option for peace," Charles stresses, calm and patient, like they're having one of their usual discussions over brandy and a game of chess. "The better man knows this and tries every other path open to him."

Then he lifts an eyebrow, arrogance and superiority radiating from him like a furnace. "There's a difference between empowerment and enlightenment," he chides. "Be certain you're not confusing the two."

A point well-stated, but Erik's not in the mood to be generous. He rarely is where Charles is concerned. "I don't _want_ enlightenment," he snaps, his temper fraying around the edges, the way it always does around Charles. "Shouldn't that be your job?" The iron tips of the arrows sing to him, a Syren's call he desperately tries to ignore. He won't give Charles the satisfaction of proving his fucking point.

"Ah, but who's to say I'm not using enlightenment to get to power?" Charles shrugs, shoulders lifting in an insouciant motion. "However, it's far less bloody to persuade people to give up power than it is to browbeat them into it."

"And that's the difference between us," Erik replies, equilibrium restored at the comforting familiarity of the argument. _This_ , he understands, this push and pull of ideals, both of them stubbornly clinging to their beliefs. "I _want_ my enemies to know they're conquered. I want them to know that they're beaten."

"Yes," Charles muses, those Cupids-bow lips pursing in thought. "I can see where such subtleties would hold little appeal for you."

Erik's lips curve into a wolfish smile. "I never claimed to be a subtle man. I'll leave that to you, as well."

"You have your own subtleties, whether you realize them or not," Charles says, and Erik can only shake his head. It's one of Charles' more maddening qualities that he doesn't know when to change the subject.

So, Erik points to the bow, and does it for the both of them. "It's an elegant weapon."

Charles glances down, like he'd forgotten he'd been holding onto it. "Yes, I suppose it is," he admits, and returns the smile. "There's something intoxicating about harnessing that much raw power...although, I suppose you'd know all about that."

"You would know better than me. I can only manipulate the physical. It's a very crude control compared to what you wield." He still wonders what it must be like to hold sway over the hearts and minds of an entire species, wonders how Charles isn't mad with the limitless power of it all. Wonders why he hasn't already remade the world in his image, shaped events to his liking.

"You're capable of so much more," Charles argues, then holds up a hand when Erik opens his mouth. "I'm sorry, it just slipped out. And no, before you ask, I will _not_ use you as target practice to see if you can stop the arrows."

Erik chuckles, good mood restored at Charles' apology. "Reading my mind?"

"I don't need to. I know you well enough by now, I think." Somehow, Charles manages to make it sound like a discovery instead of the inevitable truth it really is. Then, he holds out the bow. "Would you like to try it?"

Erik reaches out, then pulls his hand back. "I've never used one before." It feels strange to admit that he's at a loss. He's not used to admitting any weakness.

"Don't worry," Charles replies, without judgment, ever the teacher. "I'll walk you through it."

The ground is slightly uneven, so Charles is almost at level height with Erik, and he molds himself to Erik's back, places his hands over Erik's, and gently maneuvers his arms into the proper position. Charles is emitting so much heat that Erik thinks he'll burn to ashes before the end of the lesson. And yet, instead of feeling trapped, Erik feels strangely content. It's been awhile ( _too long_ , his traitorous mind supplies) since Charles has been this close to him. Since he's _allowed_ Charles to get this close.

Charles' breath is warm along his shoulder. Erik _feels_ , rather than hears, the words. "Relax, lift the bow, stand straight...good, good...now, slowly, there's a love, bring the bow back..."

Erik lets the instructions wash over him in a wave. He obeys on instinct, making minute adjustments, then takes a deep breath and lets it go as he lets the arrow fly.

"Very good," Charles commends, and Erik doesn't need to see the target to know he's hit it. Not dead center, of course, but close enough to do damage if it had been a person. And the almost near silence of such a weapon appeals – stealth is another valuable tool.

Then Charles steps back and takes his warmth with him. Erik refuses to feel disappointment. "Again," Charles instructs, and Erik notches another arrow. The iron in the tip sings to him again and, this time, he uses it to guide the arrow even closer to the center of the target as it flies, straight and true. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Charles' lips curve upward.

"It's not cheating," Erik protests, uncertain as to why. He's never felt the need to explain himself to Charles before now. Or to anyone, for that matter.

"I never said it was." Now the smile is a full-toothed grin, impish and so at odds with Charles' normal composed demeanor that Erik is momentarily struck dumb, shell-shocked at yet another facet, another layer, to Charles' personality. "There's no shame in using our gifts to better ourselves."

"And how do you use yours?" Erik asks, in a hoarse voice he barely recognizes as his. He feels a little like he's the one under an enchantment now.

"That's a very good question, my friend. And one I'm still trying to suss out," Charles replies, still so self-deprecating, so seemingly _unaware_ of what he truly is, that it rips Erik up inside. How can anyone with so much self-esteem and arrogance be so blind to the _only_ thing that matters?

"You could be so much more," he blurts out, startling even himself with the force of his words. "You could be a _god_ , Charles. Look at how powerful you already are."

"Good Lord, why would I _want_ to be?" Charles looks properly horrified. "No, no, that's far too much responsibility. I'd make a poor leader of men."

"And as a leader of mutants?" Erik asks, hoping it’s an answer he can live with. He's so tired of being at odds with Charles on everything when it comes to the safety and future of their people. They should be on the same side in this fight. Ideological discussions and differences are all well and good, but it's the practical implications that should bind them together.

"Well, we're still working that one out, aren't we? Besides, I have you to keep me in check should I stray too far off the path."

_And what if keeping you in check is the last thing I want?_ Erik thinks, rage burning in his heart for everything Charles is holding back. For everything he's too afraid to let himself become. For a world that would look upon him in revulsion if it found out about his gifts, instead of the awe he deserves. If this had been one of the Greek hero stories Erik had heard as a youth, Charles would have shrines in his name and sacrifices in his honor. He would be worshipped as his right.

_One day, the world will tremble and kneel before us. One day, you won't need to hide who you truly are._

"And, perhaps, one day, you'll move past the fury you carry for what you've lost and will help build what could be," Charles says, showing no remorse for eavesdropping on Erik's thoughts. But then, Erik knows he can't help it, anymore than Erik can help responding to the hum of metal all around him. It's who they are.

"I know you're not that naïve," Erik scoffs, bitterness eating at him like acid.

"And I know you're not that corrupt," Charles says, composed and beautiful and remote, so far from the violent churning of emotion inside Erik's soul. "You've good inside you, Erik. Your thoughts and dreams aren't all of revenge."

Once again, Erik doesn't ask how Charles knows this. There's no point. "There are times when I think that I haven't had a single thought that's my own since the moment I laid eyes on you."

"Oh Erik..." Charles' face softens, and the vivid blue of his eyes seems to glow even brighter. "What good would it do me to coerce you when coming to me of your own free will is all I've ever wanted?"

"Pretty words." But Erik's voice is faint, lacking his usual bite. "You could easily seduce me without lifting a finger, and we both know it." And, sometimes, Erik thinks that Charles had done just that during their one very memorable night together.

"True ones," Charles counters. "Believe me, if I was going to exert any influence over your mind, I'd have done it that next morning, or every night since. My bed's not empty because _I_ wish it to be."

Erik remembers everything about that night – of course he does – with crystal-sharp clarity, and a longing that still manages to dig under his skin. He remembers whiskey-flavored kisses, peeling Charles out of his clothing, one maddening layer at a time. Remembers Charles' impatient, yet reverent hands running over his body, and murmured, nonsensical words that had snared him all the same. Remembers how he'd laid Charles on the bed and taken him, hard and fast and desperate, like Charles could disappear at any moment, change his mind, remembers how perfectly Charles had gripped him, surrounded him in heat and want, and had met him with every deep, hard thrust. Remembers how, later, Charles had opened him up with patient fingers and soothing words, had fucked him slow and measured, like they'd had world enough and time, sinking so deep into him that Erik had known he'd never be free, remembers mutually assured destruction with every confident push and every gasping moan.

He also remembers waking up before dawn, feeling like he might suffocate under the weight of Charles' body pressed against him, everywhere they touched burning him like a brand, another mark he'd carry for the rest of his life. He'd scrambled off the bed, fled the room, panicked, and had tried not to think of it since. (Which meant he'd done precious little else.)

"I can't promise I won't react the same way tomorrow morning if we do this again," Erik warns, even though he doesn't know why. Warnings carry little weight with men like Charles, so certain of their place in this world and everyone else's place as well.

"I'll take that chance." Charles lifts an eyebrow, no longer arrogant, but uncertain, and it's that uncertainty that finally finishes destroying what little resistance Erik'd had. "Will you?"

As if he truly did have a choice, Erik thinks. As if he's ever had one where this man – this god (and Charles _is_ a god, no matter what he thinks) – is concerned. There's a certain amount of freedom in giving up, in giving in to the inevitable, as he steps forward and covers Charles' lips with his own. Charles meets him halfway, the kiss frantic and messy and so full of hunger that it rips at Erik's control with sharp claws. He'd been a fool to think he could resist this.

"I can't promise anything," he rasps, when he finally lifts his head, gaze drawn unerringly to the sight of Charles' lips, bruised and red, and Charles' eyes, bright with longing, searching his own.

"I know," Charles answers, in a soft, unsteady voice. "I wouldn't believe you if you did."

"You'd know better," Erik agrees, wondering again why Charles would limit himself so much when he could have the entire world at his beck and call.

"I'm only asking for tonight," Charles says, drifting light touches across Erik's forehead and cheeks and throat.

Erik shivers, then nods, ensnared, entrapped, and allows Charles to weave his spell around them both. "Tonight," he concedes, then ducks his head, seeking Charles' mouth once again. Just for tonight, he can allow himself the weakness – ( _and strength_ , Charles reminds him) – in surrender.

Just for tonight, he can believe in the illusion of a safe haven, and forget the wolves howling at the door, only waiting for the right time to strike.

***


End file.
